Smith stood, too, and they shook hands. “Where are you off to?” he asked.
“L.A.”
“Business?”
“Of course. Thanks again. Oh, let me buy.” She opened her purse, but Mac placed his hand over it. “My contribution to national security. Safe trip.”
“ ’Bye.”
He watched her exit through the door, a bag slung over her shoulder. He couldn’t help but smile. He always took particular pride in seeing former students, especially female ones, go out and conquer the world—or think they have—with a few ideas of his included in their arsenal of knowledge. Bright, scrubbed young women striding down a city street, briefcase in hand, clothing stylish yet appropriate to their careers, never failed to provide a pulse of pleasure. He sometimes wished he’d had a daughter, as well as the son who’d died.
He paid the check, went to his car, and headed home. It was during the ride, slowed by rush-hour traffic, that the impact of the conversation he’d just had hit him. He was being recruited by the CIA, through a former student, to feed that agency information, even as journalists, athletes, academics, businessmen, and even run-of-the-mill American travelers had been asked to do for decades.
Marge Edwards charging Paul Latham with sexual harassment? That had to take first and immediate priority. As Latham’s counsel, he owed it to his dead client’s family to ascertain the truth about the allegation he’d just heard, and to do what he could to put it to rest.
The dome of the Capitol came into view, so proudly emblazoned against the sky, the dignified, harmonious, utilitarian center of the democracy that was America. Inside, members of the House proved it was aptly named the House of Representatives, 435 American men and women representing the nation’s citizens at their best, and worst.
This day tilted toward the latter category.
15
Washington’s medical examiner’s office and MPD’s forensic laboratories were housed in a salmon-colored building on the grounds of the District’s general hospital, at Nineteenth and Massachusetts Avenue, S.E. It had been a relatively quiet night in a city where the homicide rate rose as fast as the city’s coffers declined. A disgrace, the nation’s capital struggling to stay afloat like some Third World city, was the nonpartisan view. How to fix it was another story, one that brought out party labels and histrionic bickering—political fiddling while America’s Rome burned.
But the building’s quiet had been shattered that morning when Congressman Latham’s body was wheeled into the building from a rear loading ramp. Unlike routine homicides, in which the body is accompanied by a couple of med techs and maybe a uniformed MPD officer, Latham’s wheeled stretcher was surrounded by dozens of people, including members of the Capitol police, FBI, MPD, Secret Service, and the House of Representatives’ deputy sergeant-at-arms. The parking area was clogged with press vehicles; the scene was thoroughly captured by TV cameras and still photographers. Shouted questions from reporters were ignored.
The medical examiner, Cooley Ashburn, alerted to Latham’s imminent arrival, had put into motion preparations for the autopsy to be performed. Dr. Ashburn was a stooped man with sleepy eyes that seemed unusually large through his round, thick glasses. His hair was mouse colored and lifeless. The staff always said, out of his hearing, that Ashburn didn’t look much more alive than the bodies over which he labored. He, of course, became aware of such comments, but dismissed them as not being worthy of reaction. There was little in the ME’s life other than his job. The place of the dead was his life, you might say, his virtual home; he lived alone in a small apartment two blocks from the office. He was divorced, no children. When he smiled, about twice a year, there seemed to be pain behind it, as though he had to struggle to rearrange his facial muscles into what would pass as pleasantness.
His assistant entered Ashburn’s office that morning and said, “He’s downstairs.”
“Prepped?” Ashburn asked as though not expecting an answer.
“In the process. I took a quick look.”
“And?”
“Clean entry, right temple.”
Ashburn slowly nodded. “Clean?”
“Appears that way to me.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes. Who’ll be observing?”
“I don’t know. There’s plenty of people.”
The ME yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth with a hand. “Not too many,” he said.
The assistant left, and Ashburn resumed reading a new textbook on homicide investigation. No matter what others thought of him as a person, no one questioned his dedication to his specialty, nor his constant attempt to stay abreast of the field. In time, he made his way downstairs.
Latham’s body was naked, plastic bags secured over his head, hands, and feet. He was wheeled into the examining room and placed on a stainless-steel table with a lip to catch bodily fluids before they dripped to the floor. Ashburn, his assistant, and representatives from the Capitol police, FBI, and Secret Service, all wearing green surgical gowns, masks and hats, and latex gloves, stood over the body. The assistant ME carefully removed the plastic bag from Latham’s head. Ashburn turned it so that the right temple was exposed, illuminated by the overhead fluorescent lights and a headband he wore containing a high-intensity light. With the light from his forehead leading the way, he slowly, carefully pushed aside hair to better uncover the entry wound. As he proceeded with his examination, he gave a running commentary into a tiny microphone pinned to his gown.
“… entry of bullet clean, skin has closed over it—slight grease ring from bullet—circular discoloration around circumference of entry—bruising—no sign of gross destruction of surrounding tissue—no scorching—no sign of gases undermining skin—no visual sign of powder.”
He turned Latham’s head to the other side, where the bullet would have exited. It had not.
“No exit wound—bullet undoubtedly in skull—X-ray confirmation needed.”
He said to his assistant, “We have the weapon?”
“Yes.”
“Test fired?”
“Not yet.”
“Please do.”
After another ten minutes of visual inspection of Latham’s head and body, and an X ray of his skull, the ME announced, “I’m going in after the bullet. You might want to leave.”
No one moved.
Ashburn shrugged. “Give me the saw,” he said to his assistant, as though asking for the salt to be passed.
An hour later, after the bullet had been retrieved from Latham’s brain—impact with bone matter on its way in had severely flattened it—and with only the FBI observer still in the examining room, Ashburn and his assistant discarded their gowns, masks, caps, and gloves and went to Ashburn’s office, where they conferred for another half hour. The interested parties had increased by three, much to Ashburn’s chagrin—Senator Frank Connors’s administrative assistant, Dennis Mackral; Capitol Police Chief Henry Folsom; and White House attorney Dan Gibbs. What the hell can you contribute? Ashburn thought. Political vultures …
“Look,” the ME said in a weary, reedy voice, “it’s my professional opinion, based upon my visual examination of the deceased, that he did not take his own life. The weapon was fired from at least eighteen inches away, probably further.”
“But you can’t be certain without conducting the rest of the autopsy, can you?” Mackral said.
“The rest of the autopsy, as you put it, will shed no light on whether the shot was fired close enough for him to have inflicted the wound himself, or whether it came from a distance. The test firing of the weapon doesn’t conflict with my finding.” He shoved the report of the weapons test across his metal desk.
“Did he have any drugs in his system?” Mackral asked.
“We haven’t gotten that far yet,” Ashburn responded.
“Why would you ask that?” Dan Gibbs asked Mackral.
Senator Connors’s AA shrugged. “Maybe he took some medication that depressed him.”
Gi
bbs turned to Dr. Ashburn. “As you’re aware, Doctor, there’s a blackout on information concerning Congressman Latham’s death, including from this office.”
Ashburn nodded, and yawned.
Gibbs looked at Capitol Police Chief Folsom, Dennis Mackral, and the others in the cramped office. “That’s understood by everyone?” Their lack of response said to Gibbs that they understood. But he raised it again to Mackral. “Senator Connors understands this?”
Mackral responded with a smile. “Of course. He was on the phone with the president right after Latham’s body was discovered. He urged the president to buy as much time as possible—in the event it wasn’t suicide.”
An FBI agent chimed in: “We’re in agreement with the president. If what you say is accurate, Dr. Ashburn, that it wasn’t a suicide, then we’ve got the murder of a leading member of Congress to deal with.”
“The problem is,” said Chief Folsom, “does anyone in this room really think this can be kept under wraps for very long?”
“We can try,” the representative from the Secret Service said. “At least keep it quiet for a day or two.”
Gibbs said to Ashburn, “I think we’re agreed, Doctor. You won’t be releasing information because you don’t have it all. Correct?”
“I have enough to know that—”
“Doctor, all that’s being asked of you is that you say what is the truth, that the cause of the congressman’s death has still not been determined with any certainty. How long will the rest of the autopsy take?”
A long, pointed sigh from Ashburn. “A day at the most.”
“Two days,” Gibbs said. “Because he was such an important person—hell, he was up for secretary of state—your office, Doctor, has undertaken a precise, careful, and painstaking examination of the deceased.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“All right,” Gibbs said, patting an errant strand of hair back in place as he stood, briefcase in hand. “We have two days’ grace. Dr. Ashburn, I think it would make sense for you to come outside with us and give a brief statement along the lines I’ve suggested.”
Ashburn’s expression said he was, at once, surprised and reluctant.
“Just say the autopsy of Congressman Latham is going on as you speak, and that there will not be a determination of cause of death for two days. No questions. Just say it, and get back inside.”
“I’d really rather not,” Ashburn said.
They left the office, Gibbs leading the way, and went to the rear loading dock, where reporters and cameras waited. The group’s sudden appearance provided a surprise for the press. When Ashburn stepped forward and raised his hands, prompted by a gentle nudge from Dan Gibbs, a hush fell over the parking lot.
“The autopsy of Congressman Paul Latham has started. It will be two days before it is completed. Thank you.”
Ashburn walked away from his “handlers” in the direction of the door. The press merged into a solid block of followers, tossing a stream of questions at him. Gibbs and the others took the opportunity to head for their cars. A few reporters split from the main group and pursued them. “No comment,” they said, almost as a chorus. Only Dennis Mackral stopped long enough to say, “Dr. Ashburn just told you the situation. That’s it.”
“What’s his name?” a young reporter asked.
“Ashburn. Washington medical examiner.” He spelled “Ashburn” for them. “Excuse me. You’re in my way.”
Now, at the end of the day, Cooley Ashburn sat alone in his office. The impromptu appearance on the loading dock had unnerved him. Each time he thought of it, his heart tripped. An occasional tic in his left eye was more pronounced.
The continuation of the autopsy on Latham had been conducted by members of his staff, including the removal of all relevant organs for lab testing. Ashburn spent the rest of the day taking phone calls from a variety of people, all of them unwelcome.
The mayor called twice, congratulating him on his aplomb in handling the press, and reminding him to say nothing else.
The chief of police called three times, once to ask how he was holding up, once to receive an update on the autopsy—he was dismayed that all roads led to murder rather than suicide—and finally to warn Ashburn that he would be hounded by the press when he left the building, and to stand firm in his public silence.
Dan Gibbs called from the White House: “Nice job, Doctor. Keep it up. The president is appreciative of your discretion. There is a great deal at stake here. National security. That sort of thing.”
His former wife called. She’d seen him on TV, and told him he should speak slower if he was going to be making public appearances. Hearing her voice was strangely comforting, but she hung up before he could continue the conversation.
All calls from the press—there were more than a hundred, according to the switchboard—were answered by the operators, who’d been briefed by an MPD public affairs officer to say that there would be no statement until the autopsy was completed.
Ashburn’s wasn’t the only phone ringing that day. Every person who might know something, anything, and be willing to share it was contacted repeatedly by the burgeoning, frustrated press corps. Rumors grew like weeds. But anyone who could provide a definitive answer kept it close to the vest.
Dennis Mackral returned to Senator Connors’s office in the Russell Building and made a series of calls. He’d placed the last of them and was about to leave when another staffer answered a ringing phone, held her hand over the mouthpiece, and said to Mackral, “For you.”
“Who?”
“Petrone? Perone?”
Mackral picked up the extension on his desk, waited until the female staffer had hung up, and said, “Yeah? What’s up?”
“We better talk.”
“Okay. But why?”
“She’s gonesville, man.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your Ms. Edwards. She’s split.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’ll find her, but that wasn’t part of the deal. That costs more.”
“The McDonald’s in Adams-Morgan. Eighteenth and Columbia. A half hour.”
“McDonald’s? I don’t do business in McDonald’s. The Palm in a half hour. I got this sudden yen for lobster.”
16
“Why don’t they just turn the damn boat around?”
Martin Latham, dressed in jeans, a yellow T-shirt, and sandals, angrily tossed the question out from where he sat at the kitchen table. With him were his mother and younger sister, Molly. Two dozen visitors milled about in other parts of the house. Outside, clots of law-enforcement and media personnel blanketed the lawn and street.
“Because they can’t,” Ruth Latham said.
“Because they won’t,” Martin snapped.
“Pris will fly home the minute they reach port,” said his mother. “The last place she wants to be at a time like this is in the middle of the North Atlantic. How are you doing, Molly?”
“All right, I guess,” she said, breaking into tears as the words tumbled out. Ruth pulled up a chair and wrapped her arms about the youngest of her three children.
When Molly stopped crying, she said, “I think I’ll go to my room.”
“Okay, sweetie,” her mother said.
Ruth and Martin Latham watched the young girl walk from the kitchen and up the stairs to the second floor.
“She was so excited about being a House page,” she said.
“She still can be,” Martin said. “She’ll get over this.”
Her son’s coldness caused Ruth Latham to close her eyes against it. You just don’t “get over” a parent’s death in a hurry. He was so unlike every other member of the family, who were quick to hug and to praise, and to use terms of endearment, even silly ones. Not Martin.
Latham’s chief of staff joined them. “Ruth. A minute?”
Ruth followed the boxlike Mondrian into the den, where the Speaker, two other members of Congress, the deputy secretary of sta
te, and the White House counsel Gibbs stood in a corner talking. The arrival of Latham’s widow caused conversation to cease. Mondrian nodded at Dan Gibbs, who excused himself from the group and accompanied the COS and Ruth to the screen porch, where she and her husband had spent their final moments together. Mondrian shut the door. Ruth and Mondrian sat on the cushioned glider. Gibbs chose a red director’s chair on which Congressman Paul Latham’s name had been stenciled in white. A matching chair with Ruth’s name on it occupied a far corner.
“Sorry to talk business at a time like this, Ruth,” Mondrian said, “but there are things that need to be covered.”
“Of course. Please, don’t worry about me. I’m fine. It’ll take a few days before I fall apart.” She tried a laugh, instead swallowed hard and wiped a tear from her cheek. “What is it?”
“First,” said Mondrian, “you’re going to have to identify Paul’s body.”
“Identify it? Why?… Why, Bob? Is there any doubt it’s him?”
“Strictly a formality, Ruth,” said Gibbs. “Required by law.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. We’ll go with you,” Mondrian said.
“All right. I’ll brace for that. Next?”
“Paul’s office has been sealed,” Gibbs said. “We have representatives there during the search. The White House, I mean.”
“Of course.”
“The house is next.”
“The house? This house? Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“To look for anything indicating Paul was in a frame of mind that might have led to taking his own life,” Gibbs said.
“I assure you there’s nothing here that would bear on that.”
Gibbs nodded, smiled. “I’m sure you’re right, Ruth, but again, it’s—”
“A formality.”
“Yes.”
“Why is the White House so involved?” Ruth asked, pique in her voice. “Paul was a member of Congress. He never made it to the Cabinet.”
“They’ll also be looking for any files Paul brought home with him from the office,” said Mondrian.
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